First Impressions
by muted hitokiri
Summary: A  very  short look at what is going through Tamina's mind during the last two scenes of the movie. Dastan/Tamina


She doesn't like him at first sight. In fact, when Tus makes his offer, it is only a lifetime of courtly training that allows her to keep her horror from being written all over her face.

She has known it was coming, of course – suspected it when the crown prince of Persia had managed to quirk a honey-coloured eyebrow at her even as he was bowing in apology, and been certain from the moment that same crown prince began to speak of strengthened alliances. She has had time – mere moments, but time all the same – to prepare herself to receive, if not yet accept, the offer of the hand of a prince of Persia with the dignity and grace befitting a regent of Alamut.

Only she does not expect it to be _him_. She expects it to be either Tus, dressed in silks and velvets as though he were already king, or the younger brother behind him, encased in the rich, fine armour of a general of the Persian army. She doesn't particularly fancy being married to either one – Tus looks vain, and his brother dull and humourless – but if the end result is that she must marry one of them, then so be it. It will not be the first time her duties to Alamut have gone against her personal inclination.

When, however, they both step aside to reveal the man who is, apparently, their youngest brother, it is all she can do to suppress a gasp of shock.

She can't help the horror that swells in her, forming a hard knot in her stomach as realisation dawns. Neither Tus nor Garsiv are husbands she would prefer, given the choice, but at least they are civilised – or as civilised as any Persian can be expected to be, at any rate. But this man… She has not given him a second thought since the Persians entered, but if she had, she would never in her wildest imaginations have dreamed him to be what is now revealed. If anything, she might have pegged him as a bodyguard to the princes; certainly not as their younger brother.

This man looks like a barbarian, pure and simple; a brute in every sense of the word. He is dressed in a plain robe, the bare minimum covering required to enter the holy place, and beneath it she catches a glimpse of his armour; heavy, unadorned leather, more suited to a mindless beserker than a prince of the realm. His hair and beard are equally scraggily and unkempt, and although he is no larger than Garsiv beside him, something about the way he holds himself makes him seem heavier somehow, awkward – a big, dumb ox, unable to command his own bulk. He smiles bashfully and drops his eyes to the ground when Tus names him, and she rolls her eyes internally – a prince of the mighty Persian Empire, and he does not even know how to greet an allied monarch? When it hits her that this is the man she is being offered for a husband, her mask slips for a moment in spite of herself, and it is only through the greatest of efforts that she is able to put it back.

Tus finishes, and the ox steps forward. He earns a few marks for the little speech he gives, simple but eloquent enough, she has to concede. He kneels, not without grace in spite of his bulk, and then her breath catches in her throat in spite of herself, as he presents her with the thing she holds most dear in all the world. As he stoops before her, offering up the Dagger, she thinks she sees a flicker of something in his eye, something that suggests he knows the true value of what he is returning to her. She brushes it aside, because of course he doesn't, how could he? All the same, the relief of having it back where it belongs is enough to soften her towards him, just a bit.

"Walk with me, Prince Dastan."

He follows her obligingly, which is in his favour; she questions him and his answers are evasive, sounding almost amused at her expense, which is not.

"Please don't mock me, Prince," she snaps, irritated, and yet even as she says it, she is acutely aware that an ox has no concept of evasion. He turns on her.

"Oh, I hardly think we know each other well enough for that, Princess," he says, and although his tone is still teasing, there is nothing unkind there. Looking up, she realises that his eyes are blue – bright, clear blue behind the matted locks, and glittering with playful intelligence. Eyes such as she would never have dreamed could exist on the face of a Persian barbarian, whether royal or street rat. She stares, unable to help herself, and suddenly there's nothing playful there anymore.

"But I look forward," he says, all earnestness and underlying nerves, "to the day that we do."

She gazes up, unable for a moment to look away, unable to focus on anything except the way his sudden nearness makes the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Then, something in the back of her mind remembers who she is: The regent of Alamut has duties to her city, her people, duties which may not always be pleasant to her, duties such as doing everything in her power to retain the friendship of their most powerful ally. If, she reminds herself, she were to be remiss in this duty, every drop of Alamutian blood spilled as a result would be on her hands.

The Prince offers her his hand, and when she reaches up to take it, she is just about able to tell herself that her decision has everything to do with diplomacy, and nothing whatever with the warmth of her future husband's smile.


End file.
